A Death in the Fandom Middle Earth
by Morbubble
Summary: Crossover fic with Discworld, and collab fic with award winning writer Tobi is a Good Boy! The Death of the Disc has found himself in Middle Earth, just in time to watch a certain quest through the near-death experiences -of which there are many- of the Fellowship. All this cross dimensional reaping will give him a headache the size of Ankh Morpork...


**A/N; So! Here we are, the first chapter in the first of a new series that I'm co-writing with Tobi-is-a-good-boy, titled 'A Death in the Fandom'. I had a lot of fun writing my Supernatural/Discworld crossover, titled Pizza with the Reapers, in which Dean found himself face to face with Death of the Discworld. In fact, I had so much fun writing it, that I decided to do more crossovers involving everyone's favourite seven-foot skeleton. And my fellow writer, Toby, is a huge fan of Lord of the Rings. Like, huge. And she is also a huge Discworld fan, so we decided to write one together, and being the massive LotR fan that she is, we decided to do it first. So essentially, she wrote the more detailed LotR parts of the scenes, I wrote the Death parts, and I also smooshed them together in a consistent style :D So without further ado, on with the show, and go check her out if you get the time!**

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Chapter One

Frodo at Weathertop

The nine wraiths approached him, their metallic footsteps echoing his heartbeat. His friends were surrounded, occupied; Strider for one was brandishing a flaming torch. One of the wraiths drew a long, bitter looking knife. There was nowhere to run and the urge to put on the ring burned Frodo to his core. His hands seemed to move on their own, and he drew the ring from his pocket and placed it on his finger as if in a trance.

Instantly, he could see the wraiths' true forms; their terrible black shapes that seemed to block out the night, see their grey robes and white faces and steel swords. And he could have sworn, just for a moment, that one of the wraiths was a seven foot tall skeleton with supernovas in his eye sockets. He was not wearing grey like the others, but seemed to be cloaked in the night itself, and his face was not merely white but bone white, grinning eternally and filled with blue stars. But then the Rider closest to him swung his blade around, the knife shimmering and the metal rippling in the light, and Frodo drew his own sword in response. It burned his hands but he struck at his enemy with as much force as he could muster. But then the Riders were upon him, and Frodo felt a pain like nothing he had ever felt before, a pain in his left shoulder, and everything began to fade as a swirling mist surrounded his vision. And as his vision began to fade he saw the skeleton again. It was leaning over him, a huge glowing scythe in one hand and in the other an hourglass.

HMM. The word appeared in his head, though his ears had not heard them, and the voice that came with them was old, powerful and fierce, NOT QUITE YET. I'M AFRAID I'M A LITTLE EARLY. ALL THIS CROSS DIMENSIONAL REAPING CONFUSES ME SO.

Then Frodo's vision faded completely, and he had no explanation nor reason for the skeleton above him as the darkness claimed him.

Frodo awoke slowly, surrounded by weary looking faces. Sam managed a small grin, his eyes tight with worry.

"Look, master Frodo," he whispered, "Mr Bilbo's trolls," he pointed to where there were indeed, three giant stone trolls, frozen completely mid-swing, as if they were in the middle of an attack. And there, standing beside them, leaning almost casually against a scythe as he studied them curiously, was the strange skeleton again.

WELL, he said to no one in particular, I'M GLAD I WASN'T AROUND WHEN THIS HAPPENED. THESE WOULD HAVE BEEN TRICKY ONES. Frodo stared at the skeletal apparition for a second, but then there was a sudden flare of agony from his shoulder, burning and twisting. When next he looked, the skeleton had vanished, and the others gave no indication that they had seen it. He heard, without really listening, as Strider urged Sam to find athelas, Kingsfoil, a weed of some sort. He was only dimly aware of both Sam and Strider beginning to search for it.

Strider found it quickly and began cutting, when suddenly he froze, a blade at his throat.

"Look at this," a soft and familiar voice washed over him, "a Ranger, caught off guard," Strider stood, turning slowly, his palms open in a gesture of peace.

"This is no place for you, Arwen," The owner of the voice, Arwen, stepped into the moonlight, ignoring the comment.

"Show me him," she ordered Strider, who led her over to where Frodo lay, his eyes rolling and chest heaving and rising unsteadily with short, pained gasps, "Give me the athelas, Aragorn," Arwen commanded in Elvish. Aragorn handed over the handful of weeds, and she pressed it against Frodo's wound, chanting in Elvish in a voice soft as it was strong. When she was done, she turned to Strider.

"We must get him to my father,"

"I will take him," Strider stepped forward, but Arwen shook her head.

"No. I am the better rider. I shall take him," Strider looked as though he might protest, but a look from her silenced him, and he helped Arwen place the fragile hobbit into the saddle of her white horse. She swung up behind him with ease, and with a few hushed words to Aragorn and ignoring the confused cries of the hobbits, she raced off.

Death sat astride his pale horse, scythe and hooves sparking against reality as Binky cantered gently across and through the ground. Death's supernova eyes were flicking between the lifetimer in his hand and a horse that was racing alongside Binky's trot. It was being chased by the Riders, and upon it was the elf, holding the injured hobbit close to her. Death sighed.

STILL FAR TOO EARLY. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I LEAVE THE DISC, BINKY. I STILL CAN'T QUITE GET THE HANG OF TIMING WHEN I'M ON A DIFFERENT WORLD.

Death watched with interest as the elf, clearly a confident rider, streaked across the plains towards a river. He should leave. There were no dead souls for him to chaperone, not here, not for a while. But he was curious. The wraiths were closing in, and Death looked at the lifetimer in his hand before drawing another from inside his cloak. This one was tall, slim, and beautifully carved, and he gave it a hard stare. Elvish lifetimers. They frustrated him so. Still, rather these elves than the ones he was used to on the Disc. He looked between the two, noting that it would be some time before either one of them were required to meet him formally.

She had reached the far side of the river now, and had turned to glare back at the wraiths. She began to chant, her Elvish voice lilting and filled with power. Soon, the river began to churn and twist, rising out of its depths into a great wall of water that charged towards the riders. It slammed against them and sent them tumbling downstream in a tangle of cloaks, horses and frustrated shrieks. Death watched with an amused expression on his skeletal face.

WELL, he said to Binky, IT SERVES THEM RIGHT. I HAVE LITTLE TIME FOR WRAITHS. THEY'RE WORSE THAN GHOSTS.

Death gave the hobbit and the elf one last glance as they turned away from the river and sped on, before he stowed the lifetimers and twitched the reigns. He would see them again.

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**So there we have it, the first chapter! Hopefully it's all okay. It may be a little... choppy, I'm not a hundred percent satisfied with it myself, but I'm still pretty pleased. We'd love for some feedback, of any kind :D The next chapter will be all about the Mines of Moria, ooh. Till then, farewell, and hopefully we'll see you there! :D**


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